Indulgence

I banged on the door for ages, calling out all the time. Eventually, I heard a voice outside. It was my next-door neighbours, who had heard the racket. They were both in their seventies, how would they react to the sight of a nude, bound sex-slave? Heart attacks perhaps? The man told me how to release the door from the inside. I found the button and sighed with relief as the door slowly motored up,

"Good God!" Was the last thing I heard before I fainted.

When I came round, I was cradled in the arms of my neighbour, who was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. His wife had covered me with a blanket, fetched from their house. She had called for an ambulance. The police arrived first. As I stood, the blanket fell away. The older of the two cops released a string of oaths. The younger of the two just gawped, eyes like saucers, getting his fill of my somewhat soiled charms.

"Who did this to you?" The older one demanded.

The paramedics arrived before I could answer. They put me onto one of those wheeled stretcher things, swathed in red blankets and with an oxygen mask! The handcuffs were a problem. They discussed calling the fire brigade to cut them off, but the older copper thought that they might be genuine police handcuffs, of the now obsolete design. He sent his partner to the police station, where he was sure they had a key. He travelled in the ambulance with me and took details of my 'assailant' as we went. He was very angry that I should have been treated this way. So was I!

Released from the 'cuffs, and the leather straps of my harness, I was thoroughly examined. The whipping had not broken my skin; the worst damage was the chafing to my ankles. And I had done that myself. But they would keep me in overnight, who would I like to call? I called Sally, a colleague. I was reluctant to call my parents, for obvious reasons. Besides, they lived two hour's drive away.

The police returned to say that Ben had already been picked up. He had gone off the road and rolled the car. He was here! In the same hospital! The police assured me that he would not get anywhere near me.

"Is he hurt? I enquired.

"Nothing serious," replied senior cop, "but he's a bit beaten up."

He grinned and rubbed his right fist, leaving me in no doubt about what he meant.

Sally arrived. The cops went to sign off their shift, but returned, off duty, and the three of them took turns to sit at my bedside all night. The next day, they accompanied me to the house to clear out my things. I moved into Sally's spare room.

The solicitor that I engaged for the divorce was an old hand. With the police reports, (I had refused to press charges.) she thought that she could;

"Serve him up with fava beans." But, she went on, "his solicitor is very good and very devious, they will probably have you watched. If they find anything in your behaviour to be able to contest, they will. So I suggest that you behave like Mother Theresa for now, that includes seeing other men. Keep it in your drawers until it's all over."

That was not a problem. I was a bit off men. Or so I thought, but I soon found myself masturbating several times a day; I had grown to need regular sex. I had rescued my vibrator from the house, but the vibe' was past it's sell by date. The motor packed up ages ago. It was hard plastic, too hard; a real cock is soft even when it's hard, if you see what I mean. I did not like the feel of it inside my cunt; I had mainly used it to keep the other, unused hole open just in case. I would update, go High-Tech.

I had great fun on the web, but the choice was overwhelming. It turned out that there was a newly opened sex shop quite close to my place of work, who claimed to be female friendly, with trained assistants, both male and female. Feeling very self-conscious, I walked past several times, before pretended that I was just walking by and popping in at the last moment. It was just fine. An attractive young female assistant asked if she could help. I swallowed hard and told her what I was looking for. She took me to a counter away from the main body of the shop. She claimed to have tried most of the toys.

"It's a tough job," she quipped, "but someone has to do it."

I felt quite at ease with her, she was fun to be with. Her hard work paid off, I bought three. One was non-motorised, a dildo, a big one. Enormous really. Made from silicon rubber with a real-feel. About eight inches long, seven of them 'insertable', massive balls and very, very thick. I doubted that I could accommodate it, but Sharon, the assistant, who was slim and petite, assured me that she could, and did regularly, I would soon get used to it. Toy two was a thinner offering, but could be made to work several ways; rotate, thrust or just vibrate. Number three was designed for anal use, much thinner.

"Try two of them together," suggested Sharon, "but make sure that you are alone in the house!"

I paid and left, first checking that the coast was clear.

They certainly got some use. I explored anal masturbation and found that I could make myself come just by using a toy up my bum. The first time that it happened I was not expecting it and I yelled so loudly that Sally came and knocked on my door to see if I was alright. I told her that I had bruised my leg. I was lying on my side, feeling shell-shocked, with hardly the strength to remove the insistently buzzing toy from my hole. I had been on my knees, head down, bum up, hand between my legs rooting around with the thing on vibrate. I did not dare try to repeat the experience there and then, but when I was alone in the flat... There was a sweet spot; if I found it I could induce incredibly powerful and exhausting whole-body orgasms. Not all orgasms are equal, sometimes I make myself come for relief, pleasant but more like the pleasure I get from peeing. Sometimes it is stronger, the jerking, squealing type of come. Then there is what I call the whole body orgasm, which just seems to go on and on, and leaves me feeling wrecked. This was the type that my bum-vibe gave me. I did not do it often; it was so good it just had to be bad.

The fact is that, far from being off men, the opposite was true. There is no substitute. Sally tried to persuade me that there is a substitute. She is an enthusiastic lesbian.

"I can do to you things that no man can." She claimed.

I had no desire to try, but I was intrigued. One evening in, and halfway down our second bottle of wine, I asked her what lezzies did.

"There is a lot of kissing and touching, oral, sixty-nine," she explained, "mutual masturbation, either of each other or of yourself, but together..."

I interrupted. "All of those I can do with a man, what about the things that you say a man can't do?"

"Well," she explained, "there's what I like to call 'tit on clit', where you masturbate your partner just using a nipple. When she comes, you can push your tit into or against her cunt. It's nice whether you're giving or getting. Or the ultimate; tribbing. A corruption of a word that the Victorians used; tribadism; girl on girl fucking; you rub your cunt against another."

I screwed my face up and looked down at my own crotch, "How could that work?" I asked.

"You need to be flexible, but it's worth the effort. You must have had a man try to cover your entire vulva with his mouth?" I squirmed and nodded. "It's not normally possible, mouth too small or cunt too large, but another cunt does the job, two big toothless mouths kissing to orgasm."

I was getting horny at the thought, I changed the subject. "What about strap-ons?" I asked.

Sally laughed. "No-o," she said, "that's a male vision of lesbianism. I have never worn one, nor had one used on me."

"Don't you like penetration?

"Yes, but not with a lump of plastic. If I yearn for cock, I go out and find a real one."

"On a man?"

"They do tend to come attached."

I was gobsmacked. I had known Sally for three years and there had never been the slightest suggestion of swinging both ways. I needed to know more.

"I call it an indulgence. I dress up in man-magnet clothes and sit at the bar of one of the posh hotels, among the rental-girls. Anyone who picks me gets a freebie, apart from buying me a drink or two. I get what I want, he gets what he wants, everybody's happy."

"Why don't you charge them, just to cover expenses?"

"Because charging a fee would give them the advantage, and because I don't provide a full service in the way that the other girls do. What they get is a no-frills fuck, no pretence, no play-acting. They might get a bit of a suck to bring them up to strength, but no suck-offs, I make them wear an extra strength condom, which I supply. That's as close as I want to get to their horrid spunk. It costs them no more than half an hour of their time and a few drops of bodily fluid. They can go back to the bar for seconds if they choose to. I do sometimes, if my first pick disappoints."

I was truly speechless. I went to bed on wine-wobbly legs, with lots of new information to digest: How could Sally not like spunk? I am the opposite; the sex act would not be complete without the cumshot. Even if it is fired inside me I know that it happens, but I like to see it shoot, I like it on my body, especially my tits. And I love to slurp it down my throat. My mind moved on to girl-on-girl sex, I had been getting quite uncomfortable as Sally described it, so lovingly.

I slipped a finger between the swollen, slippery lips of my slit. No toys tonight, just my own fingers. I climaxed to the naughty thought of other swollen, slippery lips sliding over mine in the race to orgasm. Before I fell asleep, I realised how I would break my six-month long celibacy: I would have an indulgence. With a man of course.

So here I was; horny, newly single/very available, and stuck in traffic. Instead of taking an hour, the journey took three. It started raining on the way. Even when I got to the hotel I had to queue behind a squadron of taxis delivering other guests. By the time I stopped outside the impressive front door, I was hungry, thirsty, sweaty and ratty.

The uniformed doorman held the car door for me, doffing his hat, welcoming me to the hotel. My travel weariness seemed to drain away.

"Are you staying with us Miss?

I nodded. Another flunky removed my bags from the boot and offered to carry them. A third asked for my car key, saying that he would place it in the hotel garage and return the key to me. Three men, just for me. Now there's a thought...

By the time I had booked in, the car keys were back with me, along with a little numbered disc indicating where my car could be found. Flunky number two carried my bags to my large, luxurious room. I made myself a cup of tea and considered my options. Plan 'A' had been to hit the shops as soon as I was settled, but it was late-lunchtime and I needed food. By the time room service delivered and I had finished eating and unpacking, it was mid-afternoon. There was no Plan 'B'. I decided to get my money's worth and make use of the hotel facilities. The shops would be open tomorrow.

I worked out in the gym, swam in the pool, had a massage and had my hair done. Refreshed, I put on what Sally had called a man-magnet dress, and my sexiest underwear, completing the ensemble with four inch high heels. Had plan 'A' worked, all of these things would have been new, but these would do. I was hoping to take them off again before long.

The dining room was packed. Almost entirely with middle-aged men, at eight-seater tables. One or two assessed me before returning to their conversations. I was rescued by the Maître D'. He certainly noticed me. As he settled me at a corner table bearing my room number, I asked him what was going on.

"A convention of accountants," he smiled sympathetically, "they will be gone tomorrow."

But I wanted a man tonight, and from the snippets of conversation about PowerPoint and paid up capital, there was nothing suitable. I finished my meal quickly and headed for the bar. Surely the type of business that I was looking for, took place there?

There was no bar. Not the high-stool type anyway. There were seats all around, banquette style. Service was waiter-only. There were one or two of what appeared to be professional girls, stocking tops and cleavage showing, but none were scoring. Talk here was of recapitalisation and rates of return. Suddenly it all felt wrong, not how I had planned it in my mind. Almost in tears, I sought refuge in my room.

It was not too bad an evening on T.V.

By breakfast I had re-grouped. I had been tired, out of practice at pulling. Tonight would be okay. I had a spectacular day's shopping, returning by taxi at about three-thirty. This time it took two men to carry my purchases to my room, while at the suggestion of the doorman, I took tea in the guest-lounge. The lounge was full. This time with middle aged ladies. I looked in despair at the head waiter.

"W.I. conference."

I should not have been surprised; the town, with its abundance of good hotels, was a conference venue. Yesterday was takeovers and targets, today would be jam and Jerusalem.

"Would madam like to wait?" Enquired the waiter.

I spotted a table at the far side of the room, with just one person seated. A man.

"Ask the gentleman if he would mind sharing."

He skilfully slalomed through the chairs and handbags, made the enquiry, then looked up and nodded. The man put down his newspaper as I approached, and stood as I reached the table. He stood! Men don't do that anymore! I ordered coffee, and sat, apologising for the interruption.

"Please don't apologise," he said, furtively looking around the room, "this place was beginning to seem like I had been surrounded by Valkyries, you make it seem like the sun has just come out."

That would do. His voice was like golden syrup, I thought that I detected the slightest of Scottish accents. He had been tall when standing, not a giant, but well, tall enough. Good suit, dark hair just showing grey. He was a civil engineer, for a Swiss company, but based in Edinburgh. His company was; "repairing and updating a service tunnel, somewhere beneath our feet." They had struck a problem, which he was here to solve. He had me at "repairing and updating," I had a tunnel that needed repairing, updating AND servicing. Could he be the one?

He was charming and amusing, very easy to talk to. I found myself telling him my reason for being there. Not the details, but more than I probably should. We chatted for ages. The 'Valkyries' began to disperse. A bit unkind really, the W.I. is a very worthy organisation, but this group seemed to be from the heavyweight division. Malcolm, for that was his name, looked at this watch and excused himself. He had a report to complete and email to his masters in Geneva, but could we dine together?

We could. We arranged a time and he spoke to a waiter on the way out, turning and nodding confirmation to me before he left.

I was convinced that I had scored. We would spend the night making passionate love; I would orgasm repeatedly before he finally pushed the immense penis that I had endowed him with, deep into my hungry cunt, stretching it unbearably before flooding it with pints of thick, hot spunk. Lovely. The only smoke on the horizon was that perhaps he was too nice. I like being romanced, wined and dined, but what I really wanted was a good fucking.

I left and went to my own room, feeling more than a little damp about the crotch. I had plenty of time to prepare myself for my 'date'. What to wear? Nothing too tarty, not what I had worn last night, which was definitely an "I-am-available" dress. I had hooked him, now I had to reel him in. I chose a classic cocktail dress that I had bought earlier that day; black, draped style with a cowl neckline. At the neck was a gold T-bar chain that served as the only fastening and doubled as jewellery. The underwear did not need to be understated, once the dress was off, what lay underneath could convey the main message; "Fuck-me-'til-I-faint." During my shopping spree, I had purchased a set of undies that left no room for doubt: Also in black, an embroidered half-cup padded underwired bra that left my nipples exposed, and open string knickers with double straps. A matching suspender belt added a third strap just above the hip. Sheer seamed stockings and strappy stiletto sandals completed the outfit.

Once again, the dining room was quite full; the waiter led me to our table where Malcolm was already in place. The 'Valkyries' paid more attention to me than the accountants had. Malcolm stood to meet me, took my hand in his and raised it to his lips, just brushing it, sending an electric shock through my body.

I ordered pan-fried wild duck breast in a redcurrant and orange sauce, which was heavenly. Malcolm knew his wine, ordering a nebbiolo, which went perfectly with my duck and presumably with his steak. We had no dessert; he leaned forward and asked;

"Would you like anything else?"

"I would like to suck your prick."

I thought it, but didn't say it. Did I? Surely not! Whether I did or not, he just murmured;

"Your room or mine?"

I chose mine. We left the room, me on very unsteady legs. Yes, the wine had been strong, but my lust was even more intoxicating. He pressed the lift button for the ninth floor. As the door started to close, a group of the ladies called out for us to hold the lift. Gentleman that he was, he did. Damn! I was looking forward to some elevator foreplay.

There were six of them. Ladies that is. The lift rules said eight persons maximum. Fine but for the fact that the six of them were supersize. They all squeezed in until we were packed like sardines, I was pressed hard against the lift controls, Malcolm was pressed hard against me. And I mean hard. I could feel his erection against my back; I wiggled my bum against him to show my approval. I was the only one able to reach the lift controls, I was in charge.

"Which floor ladies?" I asked.

"Ten," they chorused. "What about you sir?" I asked.

I had suddenly and irrationally decided that Malcolm and I should not appear to be together, but heading for separate rooms rather than a frantic exchange of bodily fluids. He shattered the illusion instantly;

"Oh. Nine please, ladies underwear."

The quip caused great hilarity and started me on a gigging fit that lasted until the fluid exchange started. I pressed the buttons, we all breathed in while the doors struggled to close. The hotel was quite old, but had recently been refurbished. They must have run out of money when they got to the lift, it shuddered and lurched into motion - slow motion. It must have been on its limit, the journey took an age. Unseen by our travelling companions, I pushed my hand behind me and felt for Malcolm's cock. He spluttered when my fingers found the rigid column of flesh.

I spent the rest of the trip massaging it.

At last the lift wobbled to a halt, the doors opened and we were spat out, both of us giggling like schoolgirls. Malcolm's hands were everywhere as we made our way to my room; I fished out the card key and pushed it into the slot in the lock. The little light stayed red. The task was made difficult by Malcolm having his hand up my skirt and on the bare flesh above my stocking-top. I tried it all four ways, (A good omen?) before I was given the green and the door swung open.

I had left the bedside light on and the radio playing. I always do this when I leave a hotel room unattended; to fool would-be thieves into thinking that there was someone in the room. I had left the radio on an easy listening channel that I often use as background music. It was playing Glen Miller's "String of Pearls" or as my ex always called it; "Pearl Necklace." I walked to the bed and put my bag on the bedside table, then turned into Malcolm's waiting arms. We kissed for the first time, tongues exploring each other while his hands explored my buttocks. He moved a hand up to search for the catch holding my dress together, not finding it of course.